


If The Stars Say

by FyrMaiden



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a man in Blaine's section, and he keeps clicking his fingers at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If The Stars Say

There’s a man sitting in his section, or - no, Blaine thinks of himself as a young man and he’s probably around his age, so there’s a man in his section, and Blaine had felt him looking at him when he’d seated him and his companion, keeps seeing him glancing his way whenever he passes, is almost certain he’s felt his eyes on his ass, and he’s not _complaining_ , not about that, because the guy is cute and Blaine is painfully single and being reminded that he’s cute doesn’t hurt. But now he’s staring, and fidgeting, and he actually clicks his fingers when Blaine passes, calls out to him, “Excuse me, waiter?” Blaine has his hands full, and he smiles and indicates, as best he can, that he’ll be right back, but he can’t do anything right now. 

He pushes back through the swing door into the kitchen with his ass, plates balance in his hands, and scowls as he dumps them beside the potwash with a clatter. Santana lifts her head from where she’s standing, fishes a mint from her apron and offers a smile. “I told you,” she says. “They tell you the customer is always right, but those people did not work in this place.” Blaine arches an eyebrow.

“Says you,” he responds, and makes air quotes at her. “’They’re like, legally obliged to keep bringing your breadsticks.’ Not even good breadsticks, but you’re gonna keep a booth all night if you can stock up on stale carbs?”

Santana swishes her ponytail over her shoulder and examines the ends for splits, and then raises her chin and walks away from him, shoots over her shoulder, “Someone needs to dial back their inner queen, hobbit toes. Not everyone will pay you to look cute and sing Billy Joel at them on cue.”

“Sweetie,” he says, and forces his best show smile back onto his face. “If the cutie at ten doesn’t stop clicking his fingers at me, I’m likely to stick my pen through his hand.” 

Santana barks a laugh before the door swings behind her, and Blaine takes a deep breath and heads back out.

 

The man at table ten straightens when he sees Blaine emerge, smiles at him to catch his attention and then raises his hand and clicks his finger. “Waiter,” he says, and Blaine feels his soul shrivel. But he smiles back and heads across, and digs his order pad from his waistband, pen ready.

“Can I help?” he asks, and the man turns his eyes back to his menu. 

“Can I just get the cheesecake?” he asks, and Blaine hates that he likes the sound of his voice, wants to keep hating him. He’s not a dog. He doesn’t respond to clicks and whistles, and he hasn’t been on a lead since he was 5.

“Sure,” he says, and writes it down, and then, “Can I get you anything to drink at all?”

“Just a Coke,” says the cutie, and Blaine makes a note, glances at his companion, a small girl with long dark hair and large dark glasses that are doing nothing to disguise her identity. He knows who she is, has seen the Funny Girl revival twice already. Rachel Berry is in his section. He supposes the famous have to eat somewhere, although they can probably get better cheesecake than they serve in a diner anywhere she chooses to go. Probably including a food cart.

“Can I just get tea?” she says, and smiles, and Blaine finds himself honestly smiling back at her. He notes it down and she nods, and he hears her hiss at Kurt that he can’t just click his fingers and demand service. Blaine decides he likes her, reputation be damned.

 

The clicking drives him mad though. Click. Another Coke. Click. The bill. Click, he wants to pay by card and apparently he’s in a hurry.

Click as he’s getting his coat, and Blaine looks up, exasperated and done. The man beckons him closer, and Blaine narrows his eyes. He’s got his tip, he’s not paying for someone else’s cheesecake, and he just wants to get through the last thirty minutes of his shift.

“Do you have a name?” the man asks as Blaine heads toward him, and Blaine nods his head, points at the badge pinned to his chest. The colour that flares in the man’s cheeks is, Blaine thinks, potentially the cutest thing about him and he was already doing well. 

“Blaine, can I - would it be possible to get a coffee with you some time?”

Blaine suppresses his desire to laugh and stares for a moment too long. Behind them, Rachel sidles toward the door, and Blaine can feel Santana staring at them from behind the bar. “Uh,” he says, and then, “Um, sure. Let me-” He scribbles his number on his order pad and presses it into the man’s hand. He examines it for a moment, and, when he looks at Blaine again, Blaine takes a second to examine the inviting depths of his eyes, blue and endless and beautiful.

“I’m Kurt,” he says, and Blaine nods, and grits his teeth as another voice in his section calls, ‘Waiter!’ Kurt grips his forearm as he passes. “Sorry,” he says. 

And Blaine nods and turns away.


End file.
